She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips.
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